by Q. Patrick
As she entered the drab precincts of the post office, she felt a twinge of excitement. Momentarily she forgot more personal emotions, and the rusty grille which divided the clerks from the public, the china bowl of drinking water for dogs, even the anaemic assistants took on a certain amount of glamour. Sophonisba marched up to the counter and waited.
Eventually Miss Topliss abandoned the mysterious-looking documents which she had been fiercely stamping and moved to the grille. She was fairly well known to Sophonisba who had, at one time, helped her with the local church choir.
“Oh, ’ello, Miss Dodd. This is nice. And what a lovely day. But, of course, we poor gels in the post office don’t get much of the sun.” Miss Topliss was a tall, voluble woman with pale eyes and untidy hair. “You must come and hear the boys sing some time, Miss Dodd. Oh, it’s beautiful. Now, what are you wanting today? Insurance stamps, I suppose.” Miss Topliss sighed. “I always think maids are more trouble than they’re worth. What with ninepence gone for each stamp and them coming in so regular.”
Sophonisba had let Miss Topliss rattle on for the simple reason that she was very nervous as to her ability to carry out the mission which had been allotted her. At length she plucked up courage.
“Oh, n-no, Miss Topliss,” she stammered. “I just happened to be passing so I thought I’d drop in for Mlle. Santais’s letters. She’s on duty this afternoon, so I t-thought I’d fetch them for her.”
Miss Topliss put her elbows on the counter. “What’zname?” she asked mechanically.
“Santais,” repeated Sophonisba, painfully aware of a blush. “You know, the French mistress at the school.”
“No Santays here.” Miss Topliss shook her bundle of hair. “French, you say? No Frenchwoman comes in for letters, anyway. Bill!” she shouted, without turning her head. “No mail here for Santay, is there?”
Sophonisba was face to face with real mystery at last. “B-but I’m sure she comes here,” she insisted. “I’ve seen her. S-a-n-t-a-i-s. Little dark woman who wears a red cloche hat and always uses Fleur-de-Lis.”
“Little dark woman with red cloche hat?” cried Miss Topliss to the invisible Bill.
Unlike its predecessor, this remark had an immediate result. A thin, pimply youth with a pencil behind his ear rose from some subterranean depth. He looked at Sophonisba pityingly.
“You mean Miss Wilkinson,” he said. “The one with the yellow face and the funny eyes. There ain’t no letters come in today. American mail doesn’t come in till Friday.”
Sophonisba was bewildered. “America?” she echoed. “You’re sure it’s the same person?”
“Only one we ’ave,” muttered the boy, who had started counting sheets of stamps at an incredible speed.
“Oh, yes,” broke in Miss Topliss languidly. “I know the one you mean. Miss Wilkinson—funny little gel. Only I suppose she’s not really a gel, is she? Gets so many letters from America. But what’s this Santay business? Never registered under that name.”
“I’m so sorry. I must have made a mistake.” Sophonisba backed to the door. “Please don’t speak to Miss—er—Wilkinson about my coming in. I don’t want to bother her. I just got the wrong name—the wrong person. … Good-bye.”
“Bye-bye, Miss Dodd.” Miss Topliss waved a limp hand. “You must come and hear the boys soon. They do sing so lovely.”
Once more in the street, a genuine excitement took possession of Sophonisba. She had actually discovered and fallowed up a very respectable clue. McFee would be pleased. …
She sprang on her bicycle and started merrily down the street, ringing her bell at an old woman who looked in danger of being run over.
She was too thrilled by her discovery really to consider its implications. All she knew was that she had something definite to tell McFee and that it was a lovely day. Shaking off the purlieus of Saltmarsh, she pedalled her way towards the cliff path.
Although it had all the appearance of a small market town, Saltmarsh was only half a mile from the sea. And now, as Sophonisba sped down a dusty lane, she could feel the sharp scent of sea air in her nostrils.
The cliff path was strictly forbidden to cyclists, but Sophonisba always used it when she felt in a good mood. Today the Bristol Channel stretched beneath her as silver as the handlebars of her own bicycle, and the long strip of sand below looked warm and inviting. Sophonisba hurried on, ducking to avoid trailing fingers of bramble and feathery fronds of tamarisk.
Three miles sped by uneventfully. Sophonisba’s thoughts began to circle pleasantly around the prospect of tea. At length a bend in the path revealed the familiar strip of beach which ran up to the school grounds and which the inmates of Craiglea had claimed as their own. The cliffs were very low at this point and Sophonisba could not have been more than thirty feet above sea-level. She gazed approvingly at the wet sand and the scattered groups of rocks, then she gave a little gasp. Beneath her, sitting together on a rock, were two figures, a man and a woman. Sophonisba jerked her handlebars sideways in surprise as she recognized them. They were Harvey Nettleton and Mrs. Bernard-Moss.
She was rather startled at the violence of her reaction to this pleasant scene. There was nothing at all out of the ordinary about a summer’s afternoon tête-à-tête between the English master and the charming visitor from America. Yet the two of them seemed so very intimate. They sat close together and they had, as it were, created a little world of their own upon the seaweed-covered rock.
Ignoring the tenets of good behavior, Sophonisba got off her bicycle and peered over the cliff to get a better view. She could hear nothing, yet the expressions on the faces of the young couple were clear enough. Both seemed very serious, and every now and then Mrs. Bernard-Moss would bend earnestly towards the English master. As Sophonisba watched, she felt a growing dislike for the American lady, a growing disappointment, too, in Harvey Nettleton, whose blond hair was gleaming as brightly as the sunlit sand.
After all, Mrs. Bernard-Moss was not so very much more attractive than she!
Sophonisba was about to remount her bicycle when a slight movement farther down the shore distracted her attention. Once more she gazed along the summer beach and there, about a hundred feet away from the couple on the rock, she saw a third person. This individual seemed eager to remain concealed from the other two. She was moving slowly forward, hiding herself carefully behind the larger rocks. Sophonisba’s eyes widened as she caught a glimpse of a red cloche hat.
So she was not the only inmate of Craiglea to be interested in this little rendezvous. She had a rival in detection, and that rival was none other than Mlle. Santais—or Miss Wilkinson herself.
XI
LUCAS, A NON LUCENDO
Since his initiation into the charmed circle of detectives, St. John Lucas had taken his duties very seriously. Instead of being the impudent, inky urchin who used to lead the ragging against the Moss twins, he became a solitary creature, alone and aloof. He spent all of his leisure and a great amount of his class time in amassing and editing reams of information concerning people who were the least likely to have had any connection with the crime. His small form could often be seen creeping furtively after members of the staff, or lying in strategic points about the school grounds in the hopes of surprising some guilty rendezvous.
His much-thumbed black notebook became daily more scribbled in. He could have told the most amazing details about the private life of Mrs. Blouser, the suspicious-looking bottle which the cook kept in her bedroom, and the love lives of the various housemaids.
Of these the last seemed to him the most significant, and he had gone so far as to intercept a “mashnote” which had passed between a scullery-maid and the twice-weekly boy who came to empty the dustbins.
With these mighty responsibilities on his shoulders, Lucas began even to ingratiate himself with Irving Moss, and to the utter surprise of the whole school, was seen fishing for newts with him in the pond beyond the cricket-field. Lucas spoke of none of these developments to Miss Soa
py or McFee. He was holding everything back until he could achieve a final coup.
Despite the grave suspicion with which he regarded the servants, Lucas’s major attack was directed against the staff. Mr. Nettleton, Mlle. Santais, Mr. Heath, these came in for the largest share of his dark glances and secret observations. He studied their expressions carefully each morning in class, and, should there be anything at all mysterious about their behavior, he would lift the lid off his desk, and, under the pretense of fumbling for a pencil, jot down his reactions in the black notebook. The more pregnant of his findings were couched in the obscurity of a code which no one, except a lover of cryptograms like Lucas, could possibly unravel.
On the morning after Sophonisba’s epic excursion into Saltmarsh, the boy’s eyes were fixed upon the face of Harvey Nettleton, who was taking the Fifth in their Thursday grammar class. The English master was looking particularly pale, and Lucas remembered how furious the typing had been the night before. This seemed worthy of record. With a swift glance towards the master’s dais, he opened his desk and began to scribble cryptically:
“N. typing late 1 ni. Looks v tired to-d.”
“Lucas!”
St. John Lucas banged down the lid of his desk and looked up innocently.
“Yes, sir?”
“What have you got in that desk?” Mr. Nettleton’s voice was ominous.
“Just looking for my Parsing and Construction, sir. I thought we’d be needing it soon, sir.”
Mr. Nettleton’s blue eyes fixed him in a grim stare. “You have your Parsing and Construction in front of you,” he said, and picking a ruler from the table, moved slowly through the desks towards him.
“Open that desk.” Mr. Nettleton passed a terrifyingly nonchalant hand through his blond hair.
“The d-desk, sir?”
The master jerked his head impatiently.
“It’s just that I was looking for a pencil, sir,” began Lucas.
“Open it.”
With nervous fingers Lucas pushed the lid half open and stared at the English master with injured eyes. Mr. Nettleton flicked the boy’s hand away and threw the lid right back. There, lying open and revealing its secret to the world, was the notebook. The last sentence stared up at them in all its damning clarity.
“I see.”
Mr. Nettleton picked up the book, and amid a deathly silence began to turn the pages.
To Lucas the worst seemed to have happened. Not only would the other boys be made familiar with his detective activities, but Mr. Nettleton, the arch suspect, would be let in on all the most vital developments.
“Please, sir. It’s private, sir.”
Lucas waited miserably.
“So I observe.” The English master’s face was expressionless. “Hold out your hand.”
Lucas rubbed his grubby palm on his trousers and pushed it timidly forward. The ruler descended with great speed, only to stop within a fraction of an inch above his hand. A strange expression had come into Mr. Nettleton’s eyes, as though he had just remembered something. He seemed to be struggling with his own annoyance. The ruler dropped to his side and he threw the notebook back on the desk.
“I’ve a good mind to confiscate this trash, and I will if I ever catch you at it again.” Mr. Nettleton’s voice was low. “You will spend eleven o’clock break alone in my room today. That’s all.” He turned to the other boys. “Now, Rogers, what is the subject of the next line? Play up, play up, and play the game.”
Lucas was surprised and not a little exhilarated by Mr. Nettleton’s unusual leniency. Not only had he retained his notebook and avoided “one on the hand,” but he had also been given a chance to get into the one place that he most desired to explore.
At eleven o’clock Mr. Nettleton led him up to his room outside B dormitory, and there left him with strict injunctions to touch nothing. Lucas did not take this last command very seriously since he knew that the English master was on duty during break and would not return for a full half-hour. In his breast-pocket he could feel the comforting bulk of the black notebook. Now, if ever, was the time to discover something really startling.
A thorough inspection of the room revealed nothing more promising than a large tin box which stood beside the typewriter on the English master’s desk. A tentative examination soon showed that it was locked, and despite abortive attempts to construct a skeleton key from his tie-pin, Lucas was unable to make any impression on it.
He sat down on the bed and took stock of the situation. The room was a perfectly ordinary one. Mr. Nettleton’s taste seemed to run to the austere. Apart from a photograph of a much bewhiskered gentleman called Walt Whitman, there was no attempt at ornamentation. Lucas eyed the large wardrobe suspiciously. It was just possible that a secret panel lurked behind its massive width. He moved towards it hopefully, and as he did so a heap of papers, lying on the floor beneath it, distracted his attention.
He knelt and pulled them on to the carpet. Once more, however, he was doomed to disappointment. They were nothing but newspapers. He was about to push them back in disgust when he realized that they were not the newspapers to which he was accustomed. These were not the Daily Sketch which was to be seen strewn about Miss Soapy’s music-room, nor were they the solemn Times behind which his father invariably ensconced himself at the breakfast-table. Their name was unfamiliar and their whole nature different.
Lucas turned over a page and gave a little gasp of delight. A whole sheet of colored cartoons met his gaze. He began to devour them eagerly. Skippy, Bringing up Father, Mickey Mouse, Tarzan, Popeye the Sailor…The titles were strange and the jargon of the conversations almost intelligible, but the pictures were fascinating. Lucas forgot he was at once a punished offender and a detective. With boyish enthusiasm he followed all the movements of these curious characters.
At last the page came to an end. Lucas threw the topmost paper aside and started to ruffle the next. The letter-press held no interest for him. His sole object was to find another sheet as absorbing as the one he had just finished. Photographs flashed by as he turned the pages. Suddenly his eyes widened, and he smothered a sheet firmly down on the carpet. There, staring at him from the top of a column was the photograph of Mr. Harvey Nettleton himself.
For a moment Lucas could not believe it, but a second glance convinced him. That firm jaw, that sleek blond hair—they were only too familiar.
With thrilled excitement Lucas read the caption beneath the picture.
Where is Dave Harvey? Pop and all the gang are wondering what’s become of the town’s popular playboy. What is keeping him abroad? Come along back, Dave, says Pop. We’re waiting for you.
Lucas could make neither head nor tail of this strange paragraph, but he knew immediately that here was a discovery worth all the secrets of the black notebook rolled into one. So. Mr. Nettleton was not Mr. Nettleton! That was the first thing that came into his head, and with it swirled myriads of exciting and sensational conjectures. It was not until the bell clanked outside in the garden that he realized break was over, and that at any second the English master would be coming up to dismiss him.
With extreme care he tore the whole page from the newspaper, and folding the remaining sheets meticulously, piled them with the others into a neat heap and replaced them under the wardrobe. Straining his ears for the sound of footsteps, he stuffed his precious document into a trouser pocket.
When Mr. Nettleton came to fetch him, he was standing innocently at the foot of the bed.
“Well, Lucas”—the English master closed the door behind him—“you got off lightly this time. But if I ever catch you again, I’ll give you a hiding. You were not only inattentive. You lied to me. That’s all. You’d better get off to your classroom.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” Lucas stared intently at Mr. Nettleton, as though this latest discovery should somehow have made a change in his appearance. “Won’t do it again, sir.”
“Get along, then.”
Lucas was far too e
xcited to go straight to the form-room. Despite the knowledge that Mlle. Santais would expect the whole class punctually for dictee, he hurried to the music-room. Miss Soapy’s voice bade him come in, and he entered to find her in close conversation with McFee.
“Miss Dodd, McFee, please. I’ve got something to tell you.” He fumbled in his pocket and produced the crumpled sheet of newspaper. “Look, Miss Dodd, I just found this in Mr. Nettleton’s room. He sent me there for a punishment, and I found it under the wardrobe.”
Miss Soapy’s cheeks went very red. “Why, Lucas, you had no right—”
But McFee had sprung to his feet and snatched the paper from the boy’s hand. His eyes widened as he read.
“St. Paul Chronicle, eh? So this is why the agency couldn’t find out!”
“What on earth…?” exclaimed Sophonisba, who had also risen.
McFee’s glance fell on Lucas, and he jerked his head towards the door. “Good work, kid. Now scram, and don’t tell any of your pals about this, see?”
“Yes, sir.” Lucas turned reluctantly to the door. “I’m going, sir.”
Standing outside the Fifth Form class-room, he could hear Mlle. Santais’s slow, deliberate tones moving through the dictee.
“Comment voulez-vous que je le regrette, votre Paris, bruyant et noir…?”
She broke off from the Lettres de mon Moulin and regarded Lucas coldly as he hurried to his desk.
“Please, mam’selle, Miss Dodd kept me late, mam’selle.”
“Go quick then and get your pen,” murmured Mlle. Santais, and turned her dark eyes back to the book. “Je suis si bien dans mon moulin. …”